


Llorando

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-07-27
Updated: 1999-07-27
Packaged: 2018-11-10 22:59:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11136369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Add-on to 'Strange Bedfellows' epi, Story about unrequited love from the POV of RayK, StellaK and BentonF.





	Llorando

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

 

 

Llorando

 

 

I blame the muses for this one, and the hauntingly beautiful music of  
Lhasa. It's the only explanation I have for writing something so shamelessly  
moody and romantic (if you can call unrequited love romantic!). This  
story occurs at the end of the episode 'Strange Bedfellows', and will  
probably make no sense if you haven't seen the episode. Reference is  
also made to the episode 'Victoria's Secret'. Rated PG due to a few  
curse words and remembered romantic interludes.  
  
Lyrics, indicated by bold italics, are the translation of the song 'De  
Cara a la Pared', by Lhasa. It's the song Ray and Stella dance to, and  
Ray listens to alone in his apartment, in the aforementioned episode.  
Check out the CD, it's wonderful. I've put the complete lyrics at the  
end of the story. Internal thoughts are in italics.  
  
The characters of Due South are owned by Alliance. Nary a penny is generated  
from this story, 'cause it's strictly for fun.  
  
Many thanks to my wonderful Beta and pal, Sorcha, for her generous and  
patient help with this story, and many of my other fanfic attempts.   
Then there's XmagicalX, who was so kind to check out the story and help  
me with my posting jitters. Lastly, the ever so excellent Eugenie put  
in the finishing touches. Thank you all, kindly!  
  
This story is dedicated to my dear friend and true believer in Odonata  
fanfic, Alice.  
  
Any and all comments are appreciated. Send them to.  
====================================  
  
 **Llorando  
**  
(Crying)  
  
by Odonata (Odonata@iname.com)  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
 ** _Crying, face to the wall. The city goes dark._**  
  
Streetlight filters through the slatted window blinds, silhouetting  
objects within the dark apartment. The same dispassionate light shines  
upon hundreds of similar scenes on this summer night in Chicago, each  
with a man or woman lost within their own sorrow. Of the multitude of  
sleepless mourners, only Ray Kowalski dances a sad, slow dance.  
 __  
The cold, dim light deepens the shadows, reducing the scene to a  
collection of featureless, dark forms - chair, couch, table, man - as  
if the shadows have melded with their source. The darkness hides the  
emotions clearly displayed on Ray's expressive face. He knows it reveals  
emotions he's never succeeded in controlling or understanding. Sometimes  
he stands before a mirror and looks into the reflection of his eyes,  
seeking to understand the mysterious turmoil raging in their intense  
depths.  
  
He doesn't need to look into a mirror tonight. The air itself is thick  
and heavy with his grief; the music mirrors his feelings.  
  
The sonorous wail of a violin fills the room. Swaying gracefully on  
the waves of sound, Ray closes his eyes as he cradles an invisible partner  
in his arms. Pulling the memory of her body close, he almost feels her  
hand resting featherlight on his arm, her fingers curling warm around  
his hand.  
 __  
We were going to make love, like we used to. No, our love would've been  
better, the best. God knows I've dreamed of how I'd love you, love away  
all our problems and make everything right between us.  
  
He stops dancing by the living room windows to peer upward to the  
stars he knows are there, but can't see.  
  
 _We make love like we dance, Stella. It's so easy, like we're two_  
parts of a greater whole. We're meant to be together. Why is it so  
hard for us when the dancing and loving stops?  
  
The rhythm of the music spurs him back into motion. Eyes closed, his  
feet knowingly follow a well-worn path as he deftly dances in the cramped  
space. He's danced this sad dance many times before, held longing in  
his arms as if it would materialize into Stella and save him from the  
loneliness. The same song they'd danced to earlier in the night plays  
over and over again. Even through the breathless silence between the  
repeats, he moves without missing a beat.  
  
 _Maybe tonight would've been different. Maybe our loving would've_  
changed something in me, in you. Maybe tonight we would've figured out  
some way to stay together.  
  
"Maybe," he softly mutters. The relaxed formality of his stance gradually  
erodes as he sags forward under the weight of grief, shuffling in an  
awkward parody of his former grace. His shadowed face is dark, but when  
his eyes open they shine like twin stars burning hot.  
  
 _I was scared for you, Stella. There was only my body between you_  
and a bullet. I know all too well how situations can go bad. One second  
I'm in the game, the next I'm down and all hell's broke loose and you  
and Fraser are on your own. I'd take a bullet for you in a heartbeat,  
Stella. But the odds were against any of us getting out alive if Weston  
started shooting.  
  
Ray shuffles around until he bumps the back of his knees against the  
arm of an overstuffed chair. Plopping down gracelessly onto the seat  
cushion, he tiredly rubs his face with his hands. __  
  
 _All I could do was convince Weston to give up the gun, or at least_  
distract him so Fraser could take him down. You know we're in trouble  
when I've gotta come up with the right words. That's your department  
and Fraser's, not mine. I sort of froze, couldn't say anything, but  
suddenly words I've heard you say poured out. All that stuff about letting  
go of the past and moving on, stuff you've been telling me for a long  
time. God help me, I saw my own madness in Weston's eyes, and I understood  
those words for the first time.  
  
"Stella," Ray softly groans into his hands. "I need you."  
  
The music penetrates his sorrow, its passionate declaration of lost love  
echoing the pain in his heart, begging him to join the dance of desolation.  
With a sigh he stands up and embraces his phantom partner once again.  
His flat-footed shuffle causes him to stumble on a raised corner of carpet.  
Crashing hard onto his knees, he kneels there, arms wrapped protectively  
around his stomach, rocking back and forth as if in pain.  
  
Anguished words pour into the darkness, his staccato voice an eerie counterpart  
to the music's languid drone. "I wish I could say 'I'm sorry' about  
all I've done, and mean it. I followed you, Stella. I took advantage  
of you tonight, when you were upset about Frank and shook up by the craziness  
of the last few days. But I'd do it again. I'm just one step from that  
wacko, 'cause I can't let you go."  
  
For a long moment only the music and his harsh breaths can be heard.  
Then a soft, trembling voice whispers words too painful to speak out  
loud. "All I can do is try to let you go, Stella. That's what you want,  
so I'll try."   
  
The words hang heavily in the hot air, their terrible meaning a weight  
pushing him down until his forehead rests against the floor. Shudders  
wrack his lithe frame, becoming more and more severe. He wraps his arms  
over his head, and finally lets loose his grief and cries, the soft,  
guttural sound merging seamlessly with the low moan of the music.  
  
He kneels on the floor for a long time, until the sobs and tremors gradually  
fade away. When there's nothing left to cry, he slowly, resignedly sits  
back on his heels, wiping the tears away with his arm.  
  
 _It's over. We'll never be together again._  
  
Hanging onto the coffee table, then the back of a chair, he slowly  
struggles to his feet. Staggering as if drunk, he weaves around the  
couch to stand before the stereo. The streetlight shines on his profile,  
outlining the deep ridges on his brow as his face scrunches as if to  
cry. His trembling fingers touch the power switch.  
  
The switch rocks slightly under the pressure of his fingers. He lets  
the spring mechanism push his fingers back, then presses down slightly  
again. It rocks gently, and in that moment of balance, the toggle half-sprung,  
something within Ray begins to shift.  
  
It's a familiar sensation, a gut feeling similar to heartburn, but he  
knows the discomfort leads to something he can hang onto in the midst  
of uncertainty. He trusts these feelings implicitly, treating them with  
awed reverence and faith usually reserved for divine revelations.  
  
So he stands raptly through the song, his fingers holding stereo switch  
at that magical balance point, as if listening to a message hidden in  
the music. The insight comes, slowly, the various stages of revelation  
smoothing away the lines on his brow one by one. The song fades into  
silence as the last of tension drains from his face; his lips part slightly  
and curve into a small, sad smile.  
  
 _If memories are all that's left, then I'll keep them for you, for  
us. I'll never forget._  
  
He lets go of the switch and steps away from the stereo. Breathing a  
shuddering sigh, he closes his eyes and welcomes the painful, beautiful  
memory of her. Ghostly lips brush warm and tender against his face.  
He smiles, carefully cradling his absent love in his arms, and dances  
once again.  
  
"Damn you, Stella," he whispers, but there's no anger in his voice.   
The streetlight plays across his face, deepening the shadows of creases  
that bracket his gentle smile. In the depths of the shadows, silvery  
tears shine.  
  
"I love you, Stella."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
 ** _Dreaming, face to the wall. The city burns._**  
  
Far above the streets, Stella Kowalski's luxury high-rise apartment is  
ablaze with light. Usually the lights herald a festive occasion. During  
these events dozens of people mill about inside, or stand outside on  
the balcony to admire the sparkling lights of Chicago or to catch a glimpse  
of stars overhead.  
  
Tonight there's only bright lights and silence. Stella sits forlornly  
on the couch, nursing a drink in a crystal highball glass. The rumpled  
figure is a far cry from the headstrong, confident woman of just a few  
days before, when everything had seemed perfect. She had a new love  
in her life, her career was successful, and her troublesome relationship  
with Ray finally was over. That was before Frank's crimes had been exposed,  
before her client's husband tried to kill her, and before Ray Kowalski  
tried to worm his way back into her life.  
  
Slouching back against the cushions, she absently studies the amber liquid  
in her glass. The fluid's surface reflects the bright, harsh lights  
that illuminate her apartment. All lights had been turned on by the  
police, as if to expose every private corner of her home. Not that she  
had any privacy left, anyway. Everything would be on the news tomorrow,  
her personal and professional life laid out for all to see.  
  
She snorts an ironic laugh. Frank would be congratulating her about  
the increased public exposure, if he weren't in jail.  
  
Her reflection stares from the surface of the liquid; a small, tired  
looking face with eyes too big, too open and vulnerable to be Stella  
Kowalski, successful prosecuting attorney. A few irritated flicks of  
her wrist sloshes the fluid, fracturing her image into a shower of flashing  
gold light.  
  
 _I hate scotch. If it weren't for Frank there wouldn't be any around._  
He always had to have his scotch, even here. He was probably an alcoholic,  
on top of being a liar. Why didn't I see what he was doing? Why didn't  
I see what kind of man he is?  
  
No more scotch for you, Frank," she speaks to the glass with a slight  
slur in her voice. Tossing back the last of the drink, she winces as  
the fiery liquid burns down her throat. "Goddamn you!" she snarls, then  
throws the glass hard against the wall.  
  
She jumps at the loud noise as the glass shatters, almost falling off  
the couch as she sways drunkenly. Leaning back to brace her arms against  
the couch, she smiles mirthlessly at the shards of glass on the floor.  
  
"I never loved you, anyway. I thought I could learn to love you. Like  
learning to swim, or play the piano or . . . dance."  
  
Her smile fades. It's not until she feels hot tears run off her face  
that she realizes she's crying. Then she's sobbing, big gasping cries.  
Pressing a shaking hand over her mouth to muffle the sound, she curls  
onto her side.  
  
 _What happened to you tonight, Ray? To us? Are you really ready to_  
let me go? I thought I wanted that, but now I'm not sure. I still love  
you, I always will. I'm so confused . . .  
  
She grabs a throw pillow and hugs it to her chest. "Why, Ray?" she  
softly sobs. "Why now? Why do you have to be such a goddamn perfect  
jerk?"  
  
She closes her eyes against the painful loneliness that fills her heart.  
The mournful strains of the music they'd danced to earlier echoes in  
her alcohol-fogged brain. Her body trembles with the memory of his gentle  
touch and his lips against hers, begging, pleading and claiming.  
  
"In the morning we'd be back where we were," she murmurs angrily at the  
cloying memory. "More arguments over career and children. More regrets."  
The memory of angry, harsh words spoken during their many fights silences  
her sobs, hardening her heart.  
  
"Why don't you remember the pain, Ray? Our relationship wasn't all dance  
and love. It was anger and jealousy and frustrated dreams over and over  
again. Nothing ever changed. You were satisfied, but I wasn't. I need  
more than an evening of happiness. We can't dance our way through life."  
  
Her eyes slowly open, their blue depths filled with sad resolve. "It's  
over, Ray," she mutters thickly. She stares vacantly at the shards of  
glass that glint with reflected light. Her teary eyes blur the reflection,  
creating a halo-like nimbus around each piece. Dozens of points of light  
shimmer on the floor, like fallen stars.  
  
"I'm tired of picking up the pieces." Her eyelids droop tiredly as numbness  
embraces her, as it does many other mourners in the city who turn to  
alcohol for succor. She closes her eyes and rolls over to face the back  
of the couch, turning away from the light, and falls into the darkness  
of sleep.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
 **** _Dreaming, without breathing. I want to love you. I want to love_  
you.  
  
Benton Fraser lays on the grass in the park, looking up at the  
anemic glimmer of a few stars shining brightly enough to break through  
the pall of Chicago streetlights. Diefenbaker rummages in nearby bushes,  
tracking down a discarded portion of hot-dog and piece of candy.  
  
 _Dad could've let me know about his office. Might've saved me questioning_  
my sanity, not to speak of Inspector Thatcher thinking I was mentally  
indisposed. There's not much space or privacy at the consulate, and  
now I've got to listen to his tuneless singing as he works on his death  
taxes or whatever. Why does he need such a spacious office? He's dead,  
for goodness sake!  
  
He sighs heavily, raising a hand to his brow to stroke away the pensive  
lines of irritation. He knows his peckish mood isn't his father's fault.  
He's just worried about Ray.  
  
They'd parted ways earlier that night, Ray stating he needed time alone.  
Fraser respected that need, but he also needed to make sure that his  
friend was all right. So he'd discretely followed, to make sure there  
wasn't any trouble. The fiery-tempered cop had a penchant for getting  
into brawls, especially when he was upset.  
  
Ray stood outside Stella's swank apartment building for a while, hands  
stuffed into his rumpled jacket pockets, staring at the ground and absently  
kicking at cigarette butts. Eventually the doorman left his post and  
asked him if he needed a cab, but Ray waved him off and walked away.  
He moved resolutely through the crowds, head down and bent forward as  
if pushing through a strong wind. Even stopped at street corners, Ray  
shuffled restlessly on his feet, unable to stand still. It took thirty-two  
minutes and twenty-three seconds to reach his apartment building. Ignoring  
the greeting from the caretaker, he walked through the foyer, opened  
the stairwell door, and pounded up three flights of stairs toward his  
apartment.  
  
Fraser stood in the foyer, waiting for Ray to leave the stairwell before  
following. The wizened, gray-haired man stopped mopping and leaned on  
the stick, noncommittally looking at the red Mountie uniform.  
  
"I apologize for my friend's rudeness. He's had a bad day." Fraser  
spoke.  
  
"Seemed nice enough to me." The old man shrugged, then resumed mopping.  
  
He smiled politely to the man's back, holding his Stetson in hand, wondering  
for about the five hundred and sixteenth time if the Chicago school system  
defined 'rudeness' using its own dictionary.  
  
A few minutes later, he stood in a shadowed alcove next to Ray's door,  
listening to the activity inside to determine if his friend was going  
to stay or leave. Music drifted through the apartment door into the  
hallway, the same song that played at Stella's. He hadn't been able  
to listen to the entire song before, so he leaned back against the wall  
and let the beautiful, sad music wash over him. The song was in a language  
he didn't understand, but the sorrowful emotion behind the words was  
clear. The music faded into silence, revealing the rhythmic shuffling  
of feet in the apartment.  
  
 _He's dancing. They danced beautifully together._  
  
Fraser stood quietly in the hallway as the song repeated several  
times. The siren's call of the music lulled him into his own sad memories.  
Closing his eyes, he recalled the anguished night spent alone in his  
apartment, longing for Victoria.  
  
He'd lit all his candles, close to a hundred scattered all about the  
apartment, shining their warm light just like on the night when she'd  
returned to him. It was all he could do to signal to her that he was  
still there for her, waiting, willing to do whatever he could to help  
her leave the darkness of her criminal life behind. It didn't matter  
that she'd left him and tried to destroy him and his friends. He still  
loved her.  
  
He could still feel the sting of his father's soft, ghostly words. "She's  
not coming back, son."  
  
 _They're never coming back, are they?_  
  
The question, and the pang of sorrow in its wake, startled him out  
of his reverie. Just when he thought he'd gotten over his love for Victoria,  
something would happen to remind him of her and he was back at square  
one, mourning over her loss as if it happened yesterday.  
  
The mournful music sang of grief and loss over and over again. After  
a while, he heard Ray join in, sobbing brokenly with the music.  
  
He was at the door, poised to knock, before he knew what he was doing.  
Instead, he rested his forehead against the cool wood of the door frame.  
His hat dropped unnoticed on the floor as he placed one hand on the door  
and the other on the wall, palm down with fingers gently splayed. Gentle  
vibrations caused by the music tingled his fingers. Pressing harder,  
Fraser thought he could pick up the faint vibration caused by Ray's convulsive  
sobs. He let that sorrow fill him, as if he could carry a portion of  
Ray's burden.  
  
He stood at the door until Ray's sobs ended and he resumed dancing.   
With a heavy heart, Fraser returned to the consulate. There he discovered  
the source of the mysterious noises he'd been hearing; his father had  
built an office in his closet. Unfortunately, Inspector Thatcher found  
Fraser talking in the closet, and now seemed thoroughly convinced he  
was loony. It had all been too much, so he put on civilian clothes and  
escaped to a local park in search of peace and quiet, and a clearer perspective.  
  
The comforting sensation of cool, soft blades of grass on his bare arms  
distract him from contemplation of the prior events of the evening.   
In this secluded section of the park, the copse of trees behind him blocks  
the streetlights, allowing a rare pocket of velvety darkness to exist  
amidst the harsh electric lights. Unfortunately, the sounds of the city  
are always present. The subdued sounds of the sleeping city rumble low;  
the ground underneath him vibrates with the city's slow pulse. Nearby,  
a solitary cricket sends out a hesitant call to prospective mates. Stagnant  
summer air lays thick and heavy over everything.  
  
A pang of homesickness courses through him as he longs for the cool,  
crisp air of his home. There he could witness the galaxies as they whirled  
a stately dance across the night sky, accompanied by the streaming northern  
lights. Everything was so simple there, the harsh beauty of the northern  
territories paring life down to its essentials.  
  
 _Ray's love for Stella is just as wild and beautiful as the northern_  
wilderness. It's a force of nature, like the tide or the blowing of  
the wind. That love powered Ray's words as he pleaded for his ex-wife's  
life. Each of those words was heartfelt, perhaps more than Ray is ready  
to admit. How did he find the strength to put her needs above his own?  
I'm not sure I could do the same, walk away, if Victoria returned. Even  
though I know it would be the best thing to do.  
  
His eyes cloud over at the thought of Victoria. Their love was also  
wild and beautiful and, at times, terrible like a flood or storm that  
scours the landscape with its unsparing power. Fraser accepts this wild  
love, as he accepts the gentle beauties and harsh, sometimes deadly nature  
of the wilderness.  
  
 _Every day I wake up wondering if I'll see you again, Victoria. I_  
don't know how many times I've thought you were in some crowd. Every  
time I find myself running toward you, certain that you've come back  
for me. I'm simultaneously relieved and saddened as I apologize to the  
startled woman I've mistaken for you. If you came back, I just don't  
know what I'd do.  
  
Dief trots over to Fraser and lays down next to him. Benton turns  
his head away from the sky to smile at his companion. "You're lucky  
you don't have to deal with love. Nobody I know seems to be able to  
get it right." Dief whines in sympathetic agreement and paws at Fraser's  
arm.  
  
Fraser grabs the paw and gives it an apologetic shake. "Excuse me, Dief.  
You sired a nice litter of pups, and have a wonderful relationship with  
Maggie. Only human beings seem to be afflicted."  
  
A cool breeze ruffles Fraser's hair, promising the approach of fall.  
Closing his eyes, Fraser effortlessly falls into the memory of Victoria  
standing in falling snow. He sighs as longing so familiar once again  
fills his heart. Her memory always hurts, yet he can't bring himself  
to will away her breathtaking presence.  
  
Her eyes, dark as the night sky, draw him into their mysterious depths.  
Her tender mouth whispers against his lips the musical words of a poem.  
He can't quite make out the words, but he breathes her breath and feels  
the life it gives. His hands trace the contours of her body, but when  
he tries to hold her, the memory dissolves. He can't suppress a disappointed  
moan as he tries to recapture her presence.  
  
Dief moves closer to rest his head on Benton's chest. The weight of  
the wolf's head draws him out of his reverie. "Thanks, Dief," he smiles  
sadly. "I'm fine." Dief cocks his head skeptically, looking earnestly  
into the smoky blue eyes of the Mountie.  
  
Dief whines as tears well in his friend's eyes. "You really are much  
too sensitive," Fraser comments. He covers his eyes with his arm and  
silently cries.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
 ** _Crying, face to the wall. The city goes dark._  
**  
Crying, and there's nothing else. I'm dying, maybe. Where are you?  
Dreaming, face to the wall. The city burns.  
Dreaming, without breathing. I want to love you. I want to love you.  
Praying, face to the wall. The city drowns.  
Praying, Santa Maria, Santa Maria, Santa Maria.  
  
(Lhasa De Sela/Yves Desrosiers)  



End file.
